


The Question Asked, And The Answer Given

by bittertree



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Boys In Love, I Don't Have A Beta Reader, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittertree/pseuds/bittertree
Summary: He couldn't grasp why he was able to touch his face, his hands, his hair, his body. He could do it whenever, wherever, he could lock eyes with the other, brushing hands, loose fingers through strands of hair; slide his hands over the nape of the others neck.He didn't believe it to be real.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	The Question Asked, And The Answer Given

**Author's Note:**

> this is my prompt now i take it for myself

He flicked his eyes towards the younger man, tilting his head to observe him, following his movements as they idly tapped each others legs. He looked like flowers, body spread out, basking in the sunlight as they sat together. His hair was soft, blowing lightly in the breeze, moving just enough for blades of grass to sift through his hair, small twigs and loose blades, sticking, getting lost in his hair. He was beautiful.

He didn't understand why he could touch the others face, softly, slowly, curving his hand gently over the soft skin, pressing into man-made crescents on his lip. He couldn't grasp why he was allowed to touch his face, his hands, his hair, his body. He could hold, grasp, and kiss. He could do it whenever, wherever, he could lock eyes with the other, brushing hands, loose fingers through strands of hair; slide his hands over the nape of the others neck. He didn't believe it to be real. He couldn't understand why the younger had decided that he was the person that deserved this, deserved him. Made him the person that could call the other names. Personal names, private names. Names that proved that they belonged to each other. Names that made others doubt their places in the two of their lives.

It was ethereal. His eyes, shining with unharnessed potential, as if there was a joke, and idle pleasantry, passed into the air, warm. Something they shared with each other, unbroken by the noisy whispers of the air, brushing past them in waves. Mellow. He felt soft. His eyes could find nowhere on the other that he had yet to love, to come to want, to breathe. A blessing, a sign from the heavens, could be clearly seen in his smile, his hair, him. He was as good as a blessing, better even, as a blessing would be too sweet, but this moment could not be ruined, not now, between the two, a blessing isn't needed. 

The day that would come, splitting them, couldn't be thought upon. Whether the meeting of souls, or at the end of all, he would take his leave, along with his breath; as the younger would push him away. They would part. To meet again, in life, or to meet after, in a messy mash of souls, forgotten memories, and overhanging, unsaid words; unknown. But they would remember this day, a sharp reminder of when they were.

The younger, laying on a sofa in a strangers home, being pressed down, eyes roaming, hands touching, mouth twisting upwards, but eyes glazing, thoughts drifting. Remembering. Laying in a meadow, on a lap. A tree. Warmth. The safety of being known by another, who did not even know themselves. The memory, the gentleness of not speaking, but existing together. The peace of mind, of mouth, hands. Being touched, touching another, the familiarity. The dull warming ache of hands pressed to each other, so unlike the way hands were pressing at him now; hurried, uncaring, roaming. It was not the same; it could never be the same. He did not care. He couldn't allow himself to. He was not alone.

The older, blinking up at the stars, listening to the breeze, rocking on a chair on a patio, alone. Counting the stars, looking for something new, something different. The inky blackness offering nothing, threatening to swallow him and his thoughts whole, taking away all he had left, all he remembered. He was in love again, maybe not, perhaps he had never stopped being in love. Looking at the stars, all he could do was remember, think, feel. He missed being alive, the warmth, the pride, the fluttering; moving from his chest, to his fingers, toes, head; whenever they touched. He wants the simple clarity, the love, the eyes that looked into his soul and saw nothing, compelling him to speak his mind, his heart. He was alone.


End file.
